Ensemble
by AWomanInvisible
Summary: Background stories, in no particular chronological order. Explore the development of Mycroft into The Iceman and beyond, why Anthea holds that codename dear, Greg and Molly's burgeoning relationship, and more. Part 5 of the Trefoil series. (Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.) Warnings of sex, rape/non-con, and underage in the first chapter.
1. Mycroft decides his future

**Author's Note: I own nothing, but am eternally grateful for the genius of ACD and now MG, SM, BC, MF and the BBC crew.**

**I am not an expert in most of the things I use in this story, just what I picked up from the interweb and my own imagination. As this is an AU I'm excusing any failures in authenticity as "well that's what happens in my universe." A cheap get out I know, but these are my scribblings and they make me happy.**

**Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.**

**Trigger warning: non-con/rape, underage sex, swearing**

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><p>Mycroft Holmes' first view of sex was when he was 15.<p>

Of course he well knew the theory of sexual reproduction, had occasionally seen animals mating on the farm neighbouring their estate, and had heard the rhythmic squelches that accompanied the grunts and suppressed moans from the boys in his dormitory when they should have been sleeping.

The whole abhorrent business bore nothing more than an academic interest for him. As he progressed through puberty he had come to realise the fascination the majority of the population had with the act. He also came to realise that knowledge of sex, and who was doing what with whom, made an effective source of control and manipulation. The power that sex had was made evident to him in a particularly unsavoury manner.

Mycroft had remained in school for the weekend. After breakfast he had spent several productive hours in the Library, completing his Prep, freeing the remainder of his weekend for his own interests. To his disgust, his fountain pen had developed a leak, smearing ink on the fingers of his right hand. The route back to his room in the dormitory block took him past one of the toilets. He decided to take advantage of the convenience to wash his hands to prevent the ink accidentally staining his jacket.

Walking through the door, he saw a small, uniformed boy kneeling on the floor in the open doorway of one of the cubicles. The boy knelt upright, his hands clenched tightly behind his back, his body rigid. His eyes were screwed tight shut and his body radiated pain and fear. A boy from Mycroft's form, Cartwright, stood before the youngster. His trousers and underwear were round his ankles, his right hand tightly grasping the younger boy's hair as he pounded into the boy's mouth with obvious enthusiasm.

Mycroft stood silently for a moment, taking in the scene. He heartily disliked Cartwright. He was a smug bully. His good looks and natural charm made him popular amongst the boys from less well-off families who could be easily enthralled by a boy flaunting his father's wealth and success. Mr Cartwright was the founder of a high profile commercial building company. They'd recently won contracts to build a prestigious hotel in Abu Dhabi, and were tendering for a similar project in Saudi Arabia. In Mycroft's opinion, Cartwright junior was the worst kind of bully. He possessed enough intelligence and cunning to weasel his way out of most situations he found himself in, and was charismatic enough to persuade lesser minds to take the blame for him when necessary. If all else failed, he resorted to blackmail or threats of physical violence to get his way and himself out of trouble. He was a truly odious oik, and, in Mycroft's opinion, a disgrace to the school. That he was sexually abusing members of the junior years was enough to persuade Mycroft to take action. It was not that he was disgusted by Cartwright's behaviour per se, nor felt much sympathy for the young victims, more that his misbehaviour could bring the school into disrepute, and that was anathema to Mycroft Holmes. Britain relied upon the reputations of its great institutions. Mycroft would not allow such a low-life to undermine his school's reputation, and therefore his own.

"Piss off Holmes. Find your own shag."

"Really, Cartwright? I wouldn't call this a shag so much as rape. The boy is obviously terrified and here under duress."

"So fuckin' what? I fuck who I want. I don't need to ask their permission, and I certainly don't have to ask yours."

"Perhaps not, but you would do well to be a little more circumspect in your choice of victims. The boy you are currently choking is Peterson Minor. His brother, Peterson Major, is captain of the rugby team. A very popular captain I understand, commanding the respect and support of his teammates. If that is not enough to deter you, perhaps your father will be interested to hear that the boy's father is an international human rights lawyer of considerable standing, and his mother is in the Cabinet. I suspect your father will find your actions beyond forgiveness when he loses a few of his international contracts. The boy's parents will almost certainly take swift and decisive action when they discover the sexual abuse of their youngest son. And then there is the Master. If you expect him to simply turn a blind eye to your behaviour when the reputation of this school is threatened you are a bigger fool than anyone thought. And what of the Old Boys? They will expect swift justice, so no scandal may besmirch this venerable institution's name, and by extension, their own. I anticipate none of them will be best pleased to hear that you think nothing of raping the juniors, especially when your victim is the scion of such a high profile family. What do you think Cartwright?"

Red faced with rage, Cartwright threw the boy away from him, dragged up his trousers and stormed towards Mycroft, his fists balled in rage.

"You say one word Holmes and I will break you. You are a soft, flabby, waste of flesh from a nothing family. After I'm done with you you'll be lucky …"

Cartwright had started to swing his fist at Mycroft's jaw. A foolish move. Mycroft may have a slight problem with puppy fat, but he was certainly not soft, and knew very well how to defend himself. He dodged the punch, retaliating with a swift jab to Cartwright's solar plexus, followed up with a knee to the groin, leaving Cartwright sprawled on the floor.

Stepping in to the cubicle, Mycroft helped the sobbing Peterson to his feet. "Are you alright? This was not your fault. I'll take you to the San where Matron can patch you up. You will tell the Master everything. With my witness statement we will ensure that Cartwright is expelled."

The boy turned his huge, frightened eyes to Mycroft, as his fingers tightened in the fabric of Mycroft's jacket. "Do I have to tell the Master?"

"Yes. It is how you reclaim your control and your dignity. You expose this animal for what he is, protecting yourself, and the boys that would have come after you."

It was with a great sense of satisfaction that, three days later, Mycroft was able to watch from the corridor window as Cartwright was dragged in disgrace to his father's car. He was dressed in a scruffy t-shirt and jeans, having been told he no longer had the right to wear the school uniform.

Peterson had stood tall as he quietly told the Master how Cartwright had stopped him in the corridor before man-handling him into the empty toilets, threatening him with violence and the ruin of his good name, before forcing him to his knees and commencing his assault. Mycroft had backed up the boy's story. The Master had praised both boys for their strength of character.

To Mycroft the events of the last few days were a confirmation of his own opinion of where his future lay. He had always excelled at observation; the small details that told him everything he needed to know about people. That he enjoyed the control, and ability to manipulate individuals and events for his own purposes, had helped inform his decision. But his true calling was Monarch and Country. Growing up he had been instilled with a strong sense of duty. This now manifested as his almost overwhelming desire to protect Britain's interests, its heritage, institutions and reputation, by any and all means.


	2. Birth of the Ice Man

**These events are set around 1988-89**

**Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.**

**Trigger warnings: none**

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><p>Mycroft continued to have no interest in sex. He had tried masturbation several times over the years, but found it boring, his need to maintain control preventing any sense of satisfaction. He could appreciate a beautiful countenance, an ample bosom, a slender waist, a muscular bicep, or a shapely arse. Male or female made no difference, but the appreciation was purely aesthetic. He was not disturbed that he had no sexual drive, nor a desire to spend time with the mindless rabble who swam, like so many goldfish, in pursuit of their own selfish passions. In fact, he found it a great relief. He focused on building his mind, refining his thinking, and learning complete mastery of his body.<p>

Having completed his A levels, he applied for and was accepted at Balliol College, Oxford, studying Philosophy, Politics and Economics. He joined both the pistol and rifle clubs, the fencing club and, of course, the chess club. He found losing himself in a good game of chess to be an excellent form of relaxation, especially as he no longer had to endure Sherlock's attempts at distraction. Most of his opponents were moderately skilled, but occasionally he would play an opponent of exceptional ability who would sharpen his own talents in strategy and deception. Those were the matches he found the most exhilarating, not that anyone would know. Whilst his pulse quickened and his mind jumped for joy, his features remained as impassive as ever. There was no tremor of his hand to betray him, no twitch of his lips, nor bead of sweat on his brow. Between moves he sat, his fingers steepled on his chin, as he stared with apparent serenity at his opponent's face, never once allowing his eyes to stray to the board, even as his adversary made their move. Only once the move was complete and the timer stopped would he allow his eyes to flicker briefly to the board before he reached for his own piece.

It was during his first year that he was approached by both MI5 and MI6. Whilst the manipulation and subterfuge of the secret service appealed to him, he had little interest in the leg work. Not that he was not physically fit, and could not defend himself in multiple disciplines, but he preferred the cerebral to the physical. He declined.

In the April of his first year, he was approached by the Porter bearing an envelope addressed to him in a precise hand. The Porter treated the missive with some reverence, leading Mycroft to conclude it must have come from one of the senior fellows. He accepted the letter with a dismissive "Thank you," placing it in the inside breast pocket of his jacket, before returning to his rooms.

He had rented a small suite of rooms in the attic of a private house on Park Street, not far from the college, but away from the madness of the city centre. He desired quiet and privacy away from the tumult of other students, so chose not to stay in the offered student accommodation. Apart from anything else, the idea of sharing a bathroom with untold strangers was beyond the pale. Luckily the daughter of an old family friend lived in Oxford and had previously converted their attic into a self-contained apartment, initially for their own children, but now they had left home, the space was available to a suitable student each year. Mycroft, ever the pragmatist, took an option on the apartment for the duration of his studies in Oxford, much to the satisfaction of all parties.

Returning to his rooms, he made himself a pot of tea in his bone china teapot, setting it, a tea cup and saucer, milk jug and strainer onto a tray which he carried into his small sitting room. Setting the tray on the side table whilst allowing the tea to steep, he made himself comfortable in his armchair, turning the missive gently between his fingertips.

The envelope was of ecru parchment, stiff and heavy. There were no marks save the inscription "M. Holmes, Esq." upon its front, written by hand with a fountain pen in an unusually exuberant green ink for a male correspondent. Mycroft set the envelope aside as he poured a splash of milk into his tea cup, before adding the strainer and pouring the tea. Removing the strainer back to its rest, he picked up the saucer taking a sip from the cup before setting the saucer back on the tray. Retrieving the envelope, he slid his finger under the small dab of adhesive that sealed the flap, then withdrew the card within. It was a single sheet of ecru card bordered in a thin strip of Oxford blue. The top left corner was embossed with a small family crest. In the middle of the card, again in emerald green ink, was the command "Master's Lodge, 7 p.m."

Mycroft set the card leaning against the side lamp, then returned to sipping his tea, his face impassive, his mind racing.

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He arrived at Balliol at 6:52. The Porter welcomed him by name as he passed through the arched gateway. He made his way slowly across the Quad to the corridor leading past the Library to the Garden Quadrangle and the Master's Lodgings. He had to time this perfectly, without appearing to be doing so.

He had chosen his clothing carefully, deciding upon one of his tailored two piece suits in a dark grey pinstripe, with a pale blue shirt, silver cufflinks, and a Balliol College tie. Unclear about the context of the meeting, he decided to dress conservatively to give an air of professionalism. The College tie was a minor affectation, but gave a clear statement of respect for tradition.

A good hour spent with Burke's Peerage had revealed the source of the embossed coat of arms. It belonged to the ffyfe-Young family, the last surviving member being Sir Peregrine. According to his biography, he was long established as a high ranking civil servant of indeterminate position. Now in his sixties, he was widowed in his forties, with his only child killed in a motor accident many years before. Sir Peregrine was the last of a long and distinguished line. And he had asked to meet Mycroft.

As he had walked from his lodgings to Balliol, Mycroft had pondered why none of Sir Peregrine's ancestors had change the spelling of the family name to Fyfe-Young, dropping the two small fs. It was an open secret in aristocratic circles that the two small fs was a mistranscription of a capital F in ancient handwritten records. An error made by lazy transcribers and accepted by uneducated or pretentious ancestors. It seemed strange that a family as distinguished as the ffyfe-Youngs would allow something so obviously risible to stand, unless tradition and a centuries old mistake meant more to them than accuracy.

Mycroft walked through the cream stone corridor beside the library, as so many had done before, arriving at the Master's Lodgings on the stroke of 7 o'clock. He raised his hand to knock, but was thwarted when the door before him was opened by a dark suited man. A very slight pull on his jacket revealed to Mycroft's sharp eyes that he was wearing a shoulder holster.

The man gestured for Mycroft to enter, closing the door behind him and locking it. Mycroft was then lead through to the Master's study. Two leather wingback chairs flanked the stone fireplace. The seat on the right was occupied by a tall man, with grey hair and a pale complexion. The most striking thing about him was his complete lack of distinguishing features. Mycroft was quite sure that, if he chose, this gentleman could become almost invisible. The only unusual thing was the black umbrella that leant against the chair. It looked like any other gentleman's umbrella, except a closer inspection revealed the handle and ferrule were of walnut, with the collar in gold. A slender band of gold also highlighted the ferrule and the base of the handle. Mycroft strongly suspected that, like the gentleman before him, the innocuous object held deadly secrets.

"Welcome Mr Holmes. Please, take a seat. Barraclough, tea, if you would be so kind."

"Sir." The black suited man left the room.

Nothing was said until the tea had been brought, and two cups poured.

"Close the door Barraclough. We are not to be disturbed."

Both men sipped their tea in silence even after the door had been closed for several minutes.

"I am pleased that you accepted my invitation. I must remember to thank the Master for allowing me the use of his Lodgings. A small endowment perhaps."

The older man looked intently at the younger, as though scrutinizing him. Mycroft was certain that any assessment had been carried out quite thoroughly before any invitation was sent. Therefore, the gaze was a ploy, perhaps to see if he was unnerved by the attention. Mycroft remained impassive and took another sip of tea.

"May I call you Mycroft?"

"Of course, Sir."

"Excellent. I have no doubt you have already discovered my identity."

"Sir Peregrine Hubert Plantagenet ffyfe-Young."

"Well done. As I had anticipated. You are enjoying Oxford?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You have aspirations." A statement, not a question.

"I have, as yet undefined. Something diplomatic, although I am leaving myself open to what opportunities may arise." The older man nodded in acceptance.

"I understand you have a gift for seeing what is meant to be unseen. Tell me, what do you observe?" The older man gestured with his free hand to indicate that he was to be the subject of Mycroft's test, for surely that's what this was.

"I will forego what is public knowledge. Today you wear a signet ring on the little finger of your left hand, presumably bearing your family's crest, however you do not normally wear a ring and have put it on especially for this meeting. Your knuckle is scrapped where you had to force it on. You wish to convey to me a strong sense of tradition and loyalty to your ancestors. You do not wear a wrist watch, preferring a pocket watch on a finely crafted chain in your waistcoat. The chain is a family piece, but the watch, whilst giving every appearance of being an heirloom, is actually a modern precision timepiece. The pocket watch is to prevent observers from guessing your dominant hand by the location of your wrist watch. It also projects the image of a traditionalist. A man set in his ways, buried in past glories and rivalries. You have also been alternating between hands to hold your cup and saucer. Normally one holds the saucer in the recessive hand whilst lifting the cup with the dominant. The manoeuvring of your tea cup is to indicate to me that you are, in fact, ambidextrous, a useful conceit. You are wearing the Regimental tie of the Grenadier Guards, when in reality you served with the 5th Royal Inniskilling Dragoon Guards. Another 'fact' to mislead the unwary."

Sir Peregrine smiled. "Very good. Anything else?"

"I suspect your umbrella is considered an offensive weapon, a blade cleverly concealed in an everyday object."

"Excellent. An impressive beginning. Although you have a question."

"I have many Sir, but I would not be so presumptuous to ask."

The older man inclined his head to acknowledge the courtesy being accorded him. "I will answer your most vexing question, as it is germane to this evening's discussion. Why have we retained the minuscule double f? It's very simple, as are most people. My family has enjoyed positions of great power for many generations, but we have remained largely invisible. The power behind the throne, you might say. Other pretenders, hungry for power and glory, have seen the spelling of my family name and assumed that we were just like them; petty, self-aggrandising dolts too mired in tradition to be a threat to their aspirations. It is the simplest form of manipulation. Every back-street magician knows the secret to any trick is misdirection. Master that and you have control. People see, but they do not observe. My family name is the first of many obfuscations my ancestors have perfected over the years. You have identified some, but not all. However, you saw more than most. We will work on that."

Mycroft sipped his tea. The man before him was the master of dissimulation. Mycroft was surprised to realise he would cheerfully sit at this man's feet to learn such a skill.

"Do you have a preference for men or women?"

The sudden change in direction took Mycroft by surprise, leaving him moderately shocked at the question. He managed to cover his confusion before answering. "No particular preference, Sir."

"For men or women, or for sex in general."

"The latter."

"Any perversions, foibles or fetishes that could lead you astray?"

"Not that I'm aware of, Sir."

"Good, good. I understand that you've been approached by the Security Services and have rejected both offers. Have you received a counter offer from another power?"

Now Mycroft did allow the shock to register on his face. "Of course not Sir, and I am offended that you felt the need to ask."

"Well my boy, we are in Oxford. Oxbridge has a certain notoriety on that score. More tea?"

Tea cups refreshed, Sir Peregrine continued. "May I ask why you rejected both offers?"

"They did not offer what I want. Whilst I am capable of field work, I prefer a more cerebral challenge. The creation of strategies, the manipulation of events and individuals to a specific end. That is where my interest lies. I feared that if I accepted either offer I would end up either in the field or one of many backroom analysts. Neither proposition was appealing, and, if I may be so bold, a waste of my talents."

"Perhaps I might suggest something that would pique your interest. I am in need of an apprentice, if you will. I have long held a minor position in the British Government, and whilst age has not weakened my mind, it is beginning to debilitate my body. I require a young man to mentor, to guide through the labyrinth of international politics. Someone I can trust to take over when I am no longer able. It is not a career, more a vocation, dedicated to Queen and Country. Once you set foot upon this path there is no turning back. It will consume your life and your every waking moment. I will expect you to dedicate much of your recreational hours to training, some of which may seem unorthodox, but essential. And of course, you may tell no one. Complete secrecy is essential and will remain so. You may continue with your current extra-curricular activities as they will no doubt prove to be useful skills at some later date, however, every other moment of your life will belong to me. Does this tempt you Mycroft Auberon Holmes? Can I have your life unconditionally?"

Mycroft took a further sip of his tea. It was all the time he needed to make a decision that would alter the course of his life. "Yes Sir. When do we start?"

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><p><strong>Oxbridge is the standard contraction for the universities of Oxford and Cambridge<strong>

**If you wish to review, I would love to hear from you. Constructive criticism, corrections, and compliments are always appreciated.**


	3. Anthea

**Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.**

**Makes reference to events in 'Becoming' chapter 10 and 'Trefoil' chapters 14 and 15.**

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><p>May Brent did not dislike her name, she merely found it an inconvenient, flat, boring, nondescript sort of thing. It had been so long since she'd actually used it that she had almost forgotten its existence. When she had first been instructed to create several aliases, for security purposes, she ran rampant through the alphabet and several languages, relishing the freedom to be dramatic. Her handler had tutted, suggesting that at least some of her aliases should be almost as non-descript as her own birth name. After all, for every Titania, she would have need of a Helen. That was the nature of spy-craft.<p>

When she was recruited to be personal assistant and bodyguard to Mycroft Holmes, he asked her what she preferred to be called. At first she contemplated giving one of her more exotic aliases, however, she knew that any of her previous identities would be burned, and she would not risk her new position and her new charge being compromised by her previous life.

"I will, as a matter of course, change my code name on a regular basis as per protocol, however, I prefer Anthea."

"Ah yes. An excellent choice. Meaning 'blossom' in Greek and an epithet to that most vengeful of goddesses, Hera. Most appropriate."

Not many discovered her name. Those who did were either trusted colleagues, or could only pass their newly acquired knowledge on to the denizens of whatever afterlife they had so abruptly joined.

When she first met Sherlock Holmes, younger sibling of her mentor, Mycroft introduced her as Anthea. So for Sherlock that is who she remained.

When Dr John Watson settled himself and his cane next to her on his way to his first meeting with Mycroft Holmes he, ever the gentleman, introduced himself, quite superfluously, and asked her name. She had ceased to be Anthea to anyone but the younger Mr Holmes some time before. However, it seemed natural to impart it to her temporary companion.

"That's not your real name is it?" _Oh, what a clever boy. This one may just survive the encounter. Although whether he survives the younger Mr Holmes remains to be seen._

"No."

After Mycroft ordered her to increase security on both Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson she knew her instincts had been correct. John Watson was going to be around for a while. Watching the backs of the two men disappear from view she noted two things, Dr Watson no longer required his cane and Sherlock Holmes was laughing, his shoulders visibly shaking under his great Belstaff. She smiled, feeling that she may be Anthea, at least to some, for a while yet.

When Mycroft suggested she choose a code name for her increasingly frequent encounters with the growing number of people associated with Sherlock Holmes, she considered selecting something new, but her mind kept swirling back to the name she had selected so long before. Mycroft had, of course, long since ceased to use it, but for the friends and family that now orbited 221B Baker Street, when she met for coffee with Mary Morstan, later to become Mary Watson, and when she occasionally met up for a girls night with Molly Lestrade, Mary, Noor Panesar, Sally Donovan and the rest of the gang, then she was Anthea.

It seemed appropriate, to bear a name meaning 'flower' when spending time with a circle of friends that had grown together in the unlikeliest and harshest of circumstances, and yet had blossomed.

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><p><strong>Constructive criticism, helpful comments, and of course favorites and follows are always welcomed and appreciated.<strong>


	4. Molly and Greg - a new beginning

Greg and Molly join the story sharp on the heels of Anthea.

Greg struggles with the aftermath of Sherlock's fall. He turns to Molly in his hour of need.

I've always felt that Lestrade and Sherlock have an almost father son relationship. I thought, how would a man feel having just lost his son. Not only having lost him to suicide contrived by an arch criminal, but knowing that he'd contributed to that scheme, to that death. That's the premise I used for Lestrade in this chapter.

**Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.**

Makes reference to events in 'Watersheds' chapter 2, and ' Trefoil ' chapter 10. Set in August 2011, in the aftermath of BBC's TRF (AU timeline).

Italics with quotation marks indicate internal dialogue.

**Trigger warnings: swearing, drunkenness, mention of suicide risk**

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><p>The first time he came after it happened, Sherlock was still hiding in her flat.<p>

He looked awful, several days stubble unshaven on his chin, his suit crumpled, his eyes red rimmed and bloodshot, not just from lack of sleep.

The incident on the roof of Bart's, and then on the pavement below, had taken place only three days before. When he had arrived on scene, a scant thirty minutes after the blood soaked body had been wheeled in, he'd dashed straight to the morgue only to find his way barred by a huge, black suited agent placed on the door by Mycroft Holmes.

He needed to get in, trying to dodge the man mountain blocking his way. When that failed he shouted for Molly, pleading to be allowed entry. Finally he pounded on the door shouting Sherlock's name and repeating over and over again "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Molly's heart nearly broke, listening to the man falling apart in the corridor as she helped Sherlock prepare for the worse torment to come, laying immobile when John was escorted in. John who was currently sedated and restrained in a ward upstairs while he was treated for shock and mild concussion, but who would shortly revive and demand to see his friend.

Molly offered Sherlock a sedative, to make things easier. He declined. "Thank you Molly, but I need to bear this. If I'm going to survive the coming months I will need to survive the next hour."

Now, barely three days later, less than seventy two hours, he was back.

She didn't look up from the table where she was suturing a corpse whose post mortem she'd just completed: heart disease, natural causes. She wasn't angry at his appearance in her morgue, just surprised. "What're you doing here Greg?"

"Nowhere else to be."

"You've been drinking."

"Nothin' else to do."

"Aren't you supposed to be on duty?"

"Nope." He popped the P as he swayed slightly in his determined effort to reach the pathologist. "Suspended pending the outcome of a review of my cases and a disciplinary hearing for failing to follow proper procedure." He made quotes with his fingers in the air to highlight the last two words in the scorn filled sentence. Words he was obviously repeating from his suspension if his sarcastic intonation was any indication.

"Oh, I'm so sorry Greg. Is it all your cases?"

"Course not. Just the ones involving …you know." He waved his arm around as if the gesture would help him to say Sherlock's name. It didn't.

"I thought you'd followed procedure?" As she spoke Molly finished up, dumping her gloves and gown in the waste bin, and moving to the sink to wash up.

"Course I did. Listed him as an informant on the early cases then, once he was off the streets, cleared it with upstairs, who were falling over themselves at the chance to improve the clean-up rate. My mistake was not getting confirmation in writing. No proof you see. So, despite the Chief Super signing off expenses, an' makin' statements to the press with him stood right there by his shoulder, an' the CPS accepting his involvement without question, even wanting to use him as an expert witness, now he's suddenly a fraud who wormed his way into the investigations of a desperate, over the hill, incompetent DI who needed the results to keep his job."

"Oh god Greg. I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault is it. Not like you had anything to do with it. Gonna be questioned tomorrow about my involvement with Richard Brook. They're talking about the wanker like he's real. Fuckin' bastard Moriarty. You know he's real right Molly? You know Moriarty's real?"

"Of course I do Greg. I dated him, remember, when he was using me to get to Sherlock. When he was kidnapping people and threatening to blow them up." Twelve people. She'd dated someone who'd blown up twelve people simply because an elderly blind woman tried to be helpful.

"Shit yeah. Sorry Molls. Forgot he used you too. Bastard. And now he's killed … him, and damn near killed John too."

"No! What's the matter with John?" Her voice betrayed her panic. If anything had happened to John, how could she tell him? How could she tell Sherlock?

"Dunno. Won't see me. Won't see anyone, 'cept Mrs Hudson. She says he's barely moved since Mycroft's people took him home. Just sits in his chair and stares. Said she's managed to bully him into drinking some water and eating a few biscuits, but that's all. She's scared stiff he's going to do something drastic. She's been so worried she had Mycroft take his gun and any drugs he could find, even his med kit so he's not got his scalpel or syringes. Don't see it'll do any good though. If John wants out he'll find a way."

"Oh my god Greg, don't talk like that. He can't be that bad."

"Pretty much catatonic she says."

"Has he got anyone? You know, family or friends?"

"No family worth mentioning. His sister's a drunk bitch by all accounts. Just calls him up and shouts abuse when she can't cope with her life. And what time did he have to make friends when he spent all his time running after … you know? He had me, but what use am I? Bloody no use, that's what. I knew it was all lies. For fuck's sake, I've watched the bugger work for years, but I still let him down when it mattered. I still let that bastard's lies make me doubt. Bollocks. I wanted to say sorry. That day, when he was here. I wanted to come in and say how sorry I was that I'd not done more, that I'd let Donovan persuade me. No, it wasn't her fault. She followed the evidence. Sure it was fake, but she wasn't to know. No, I knew an' I still let that fuckin' bastard's lies in my head. Shit!" Greg had been pacing, throwing his arms around, running his fingers through his hair in frustration and distress. Now he grabbed Molly shoulders and stared pleadingly into her eyes. "Tell me Molly, would it have changed anything if I'd not doubted? Could I have saved him if I'd not listened to the lies?"

She took Greg's arms and slowly guided them away from her shoulders and the punishing grip his fingers had on her flesh. Tears in her eyes, she gently spoke what she knew to be the truth. "No Greg, it would have made absolutely no difference at all. Nothing you could have done could have changed the course of events. It was Moriarty's game and Sherlock had to play it out to the end. There was no other way."

Greg slumped his shoulders, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He took Molly's hands, holding them together cupped in his own, and kissing her loosely curled fingers. He looked up, his brown eyes meeting hers in genuine gratitude. "Thank you Molly. Thank you."

She gently wrapped her arm round the taller man's slouched shoulders and led him towards her office. "Come on Greg. You could do with a coffee. And I've got a packet of hobnobs in my desk."

She barely heard a whispered "thank you," over the rustle of fabric and the scrape of soles dragged by tired legs across the floor.

-0-0-0-

The second time he came it was three weeks after it happened, eight days after the funeral, and, had they known, the same day Mary met John at the Criterion after a decade apart. Sherlock had finally left her flat the day before. His wrist, injured in the fall, now fully healed. He'd left for she knew not where, on a mission to seek and destroy. She hadn't told him about John. She'd left that to Mycroft. She provided a roof, a bed, food and, of course, unlimited access to the internet. Anything else was between Sherlock, his brother, and the agents who came to her flat to 'fix the boiler and make good'.

He looked moderately better than when she'd last seen him, but only just.

He wore jeans and a polo shirt under a light bomber jacket. He'd obviously lost weight, his belt a notch tighter than usual and his shirt hanging loose over his toned frame. Despite the weight loss he'd have looked good, except for his eyes. Dark bags marred his beautiful brown eyes. His face bore an expression of tired resignation.

"Hi Molls. Thought I'd pop in and see if you were free for coffee or something."

"Hello Greg. I'd love to. Give me ten minutes to finish up and I'll be with you."

They went to a coffee shop, deciding on takeaways so they could enjoy the late August sunshine. Walking slowly, they made their way in mildly strained silence to a bench in Postman's Park. Both wanted to break the silence but neither knew quite what to say.

Finally, once they were both seated, Molly took the first step. "So, how's it going Greg?"

"Not great. I'm bored stupid. Spent the last fortnight giving witness statements, and being forced to justify my decision to 'bring in unauthorised individuals to consult on my cases'. Unauthorised my arse. Still, if you can't prove it, it doesn't matter what you know to be true. Been a copper long enough to know that. They've pulled together the review panel to investigate every case. It's going to cost a bloody fortune. Five DCIs, all from other forces, plus a couple of forensics experts. Hope they bore themselves shitless. There's nothing to find. I made sure of that. All the paperwork complete, every I dotted and ever T crossed. Every scrap of evidence properly documented and accounted for. The only loopholes'll be where Anderson missed something and that won't impact the cases. Bloody Donovan's having a field day telling anyone who'll listen how she just knew he was dodgy and how I overruled her concerns. I like Sally. She's a good copper and she's worked damn hard to get where she is, but she's got blinkers when it comes to, well you know, him. And she's gonna get herself in a load of trouble if she doesn't keep her mouth shut. When we come out of this smelling of bloody roses, she's gonna look a right idiot, or worse."

"Do you think you will? Smell of roses that is."

"Don't see how it can go any other way, unless they try for a cover-up to appease the gutter press, but Mycroft won't allow that. Anyway, think how many criminals they'll have to release and how many re-trials will be called for if this goes the wrong way. The CPS are already preparing themselves for a deluge of appeals for evidence tampering, harassment, and god knows what else. No, the cases are all water-tight. I wouldn't have signed off on them if they weren't. Yep, no problem there. Not so sure about me though."

"Oh, why? What do you think they'll do?"

"Probably put me out to pasture. Make this gardening leave permanent. Early retirement if the evidence is kosher, dismissal and maybe even prison time if it isn't."

"Oh my god, Greg! I didn't realise it was that bad. Can't Mycroft do something?"

"Dunno. Haven't asked. An' I'm not going to. Any problems with the cases was down to me. No-one else. My cases, my responsibility."

"But, if Jim was able to plant false evidence, maybe he was able to tamper with evidence that had already been processed. You know, get into old case files. Alter records, that sort of thing."

"It's possible, but why would he? It wasn't me he was after. I wasn't a part of his game."

"Weren't you?"

Greg suddenly stiffened, turning abruptly to face the woman sat beside him. "What do you mean Molly? What do you know?"

She couldn't tell him what she suspected. She didn't actually know. She'd only guessed when Sherlock had started tossing and turning one evening, whimpering "No, Lestrade, no, I'm sorry." Most nights, when Sherlock had a nightmare, it was John's name he cried out in the dark. The anguish in that one syllable was almost unbearable. It was just that one night, when she'd got home and he'd been dozing on the sofa. She'd covered him with a blanket and gone to make herself supper. When she returned his face bore a sheen of sweat and he held the edge of the blanket in a death grip as he whimpered his apologies to his old friend. From that she could only assume that Greg had been a target too, used by Moriarty to force Sherlock to comply, just as John must have been.

Some days she thanked her lucky stars that Sherlock had treated her with such disdain in front of Jim. It stopped her from being a pawn, a target for Jim's madness.

"I don't know anything Greg. Really I don't. It's just, Jim was so twisted. He'd use anyone or anything to get people to dance to his tune. Don't ignore the possibility that there isn't someone in the Met whose soul belongs to Moriarty. I know Sherlock's dead and the game should be over, but just watch your back. Don't take anything for granted. It may not be quite over yet, and I'd hate to lose another friend."

"Thanks Molly. It's good to know someone cares. You're a good friend, you know. I know you fancied his nibs, and he wasn't always kind, but I think he appreciated how you helped him, you know, with his experiments and what not."

"Yes, well. Maybe fancied a little bit. He was rather lovely to look at. Brightened up an otherwise dull day of corpses and specimens. He was a bit too selfish really, wanting me to give him samples and demanding my time. Not that I minded. I'd have helped him anyway. But he never had any interest in me, or any woman really, if he had an interest at all."

"That was certainly the way the betting at the Yard was going. But I don't know. Sherlock and sex never really made a connection in my head. Maybe a bit of a flutter when that Irene Adler was around. Never saw her in the flesh, but I've seen her website. Blimey. She'd certainly draw the eye. But no, the only person I've ever seen him have a genuine interest in is John. The way they looked out for each other. He only really laughed when John was around, and there was this smile. I'd never seen it before in all the time I'd known him. It seemed like it was just for John, when he wasn't looking."

"I know the one you mean. Like something John had done had made him happy, but he didn't want John to know."

"I often wondered if there was something more, between them I mean."

"I don't know. I know they cared for each other, but were they together, you know, sexually? No, I don't think so. Maybe if they'd had time, but no." Molly let out a heartfelt sigh. "It's a shame, how much time people lose because they're afraid."

"Afraid?"

"Of being hurt, of taking a chance, of being rejected. Even of being happy."

"Yeah. I know what you mean."

They both sat, Molly staring at the gravel at her feet, Greg at the dappling of sunlight in the trees that lined the tiny park.

"Do you fancy dinner? With me I mean. There's a great vegetarian restaurant off of Chancery Lane that I've heard good things about. I've kept meaning to try it, but it's kind of awkward always dining on your own. Not that I'm strong arming you or anything, but I'd love the company, if you're interested. And of course if you haven't got anything else planned, you know, with anyone."

Having spent three weeks sleeping on the sofa as Sherlock had commandeered her bedroom, Molly had been looking forward to her first night back in her own flat, on her own, in peace and quiet. She was tempted to say no. But then she had made that speech about fear, and she did enjoy vegetarian food, and Greg was rather gorgeous if a little older than she'd normally be interested in, but he was here, and he'd asked, and she trusted him, and he was alone, and … _"Oh stop shilly-shallying woman. Just say yes. You know you want to. SAY YES!"_

"YES! Err I mean yes, I'd love to."

And there it was. A beautiful smile, all teeth and sparkling brown eyes. Molly smiled right back, feeling a lightness of heart that she hadn't realised she was missing.

Greg stood and extended his hand. She reached for his warm, strong hand and allowed herself to be drawn from her seat. They began to walk, Greg depositing there now empty cups in the nearby bin. At no point did either of them feel the inclination to break their hold, and, as they strolled, and talked, and smiled, and drew closer together, their fingers slowly entwined.

* * *

><p>Hobnobs are a brand of biscuitscookies

shilly-shallying = to dither or be indecisive

gardening leave = a euphemism for suspension without loss of pay or benefits


End file.
